Tying up loose ends
by KateMueller
Summary: Because the mess that was Season 8 had so many basic unanswered questions (is there any food left in Westeros? what was the point of all those prophecies?), I decided to answer some of them.
1. Chapter 1

It was late, very late. Tyrion rubbed his eyes and poured himself another half-glass of wine as he looked again at the latest tallies of people and food left south of Moat Cailin and north of Dorne. They needed another source of income – or food – and quickly.

Tyrion woke to sunlight shining in his eyes. He'd fallen asleep in his chair, his head cradled in his hands on the table. His limbs were stiff, his fingers and toes were numb from the cold, his mouth tasted like something had died in it, and he needed to take a piss. He painfully swung his legs to the side of the chair and hopped down, then waddled over to the chamber pot in the corner. All the time, the same question to which he'd fallen asleep kept pounding in his head: how were they to get food or the money needed to buy it?

He suspected he smelled as bad as he felt. No one had come by to rekindle his fire that morning – there were precious few servants in the Red Keep, as the few able-bodied people left in the city generally were kept busy tending to the wounded or rebuilding – so he was forced to spend time coaxing some life back into the grey ashes in his fireplace. After he had a small fire burning, he put the now-frozen bowl of water from his washstand on the hearth to melt and stood as close to the fire as he dared while stripping, dabbing some water and soap on his smelliest parts, and pulling on somewhat cleaner clothes. He made a mental note that they would need to do something about the servant situation soon, or soon everyone in the Red Keep would be forced to do their own laundry or risk offending every visitor with their stench.

The Small Council meeting that afternoon started off with more pressing concerns than wash, however. "This morning we had three more ravens asking for advice on food supplies. Two of them," Sam turned to look at Bronn, "were from the Reach. Everyone is asking when we think winter will end as they try to decide what to do with their remaining food stores."

"Don't look at me," Bronn shrugged. "Not my fault Queen Cersei decided to plunder all of the Reach and leave us with nothin' to eat. But as Master of Coin, I will say that the Reach should get priority in receiving the food we secure, otherwise there'll be no one left to plant seeds and tend to 'em if spring ever does decide to return." He scratched his arse.

Tyrion fixed him with a stare. "Might I remind you that not only were you part of the plunderers, your duties as Master of Coin do not include funneling all the coin to your own pocket."

Bronn lifted an eyebrow. "If it's not to play it for their own advantage, then why would anyone waste their time on this miserable job?"

Tyrion had no answer for that. "What we should be doing is figuring out what we have that Essos wants so we can sell or bargain with that."

Silence fell on the table.

"Are you talking about snow?" Sam asked tentatively.

"Nah, he's talking about half-burned cities," Bronn replied with some contempt.

"Land. Empty land," Brienne interjected.

Tyrion nodded at that. Perhaps an investor – or even some settlers – may wish to pay a fee for the ability to get good farmland in return. Of course, there would be much delicate negotiation needed with the Lords Paramount and local lords before handing out land anywhere other than the Crownlands.

"Dead bodies," Casper Waters, the new Master of Whispers, offered.

Bronn snorted and the tension that had been building dissolved. _If you can't laugh about dead bodies in these times, you've lost your sense of humor entirely_, Tyrion thought.

"Dead dragons," Davos put in.

"One dead dragon," Brienne corrected him. True, the other one was in the North and those at Winterfell after the battle with the dead would not soon forget the effort it took to get Viserion's decomposing hulk out of the courtyard.

Tyrion pondered that for a moment. "Maester Samwell, do dragon parts have any known properties that would make them…saleable?"

Sam understood immediately. "The horns have been turned into…well…horns. The kind that make noise. There are legends of some with magical properties, but it's unclear whether the magic was inherent to the fact that they came from a dragon, or from spells placed on them later. And the scales are strong, as we all know, and fireproof. So is the wing leather. And the claws…." He cleared his throat. "Ground dragonclaw is a claimed ingredient in many, um, tonics to help, um, men with certain maladies…." His face was rapidly turning from pink to fuschia as he trailed off.

Brienne saw Bronn's mouth open and headed him off. "Really. 'Maladies.' For men." The edge to her voice could have cut diamonds.

"Well, if a dwarf's cock is supposed to be magic, one only can assume that a dragon's claw must be even more so," Tyrion quickly interjected. "I think we all can agree that verified dragon parts would be of great interest to many buyers, correct?" Everyone at the table nodded. "Well, then, Ser Davos, what would it take to pull a dragon out of the sea?"

Davos sighed. "Chains, m'lord. Lots of heavy chains and hooks. Luckily Euron shot Rhaegal down near Dragonstone, where the water is not very deep and the tides aren't very strong." He thought for a moment. "Some claim you can see Rhaegal's hulk from the surface."

Tyrion nodded. "Well, here's a fishing expedition for the ages. See what you can do; I anticipate that there are some lords in Essos who would pay enough for even one of those horns to keep the Reach fed for a year. And goodness knows what they'll pay for claws."

The meeting ended on a cautiously optimistic note, a welcome change. After the others left, Tyrion sat for a moment with his thoughts. Too often he expected to see Varys walking through one of the doors, an unctuous "My lord" coming from his lips. His death was something Tyrion never would stop regretting. _The eunuch had more balls than the rest of us combined_, he thought to himself as he stood and started gathering his things. _And you never did tell me what that voice in the fire said, old friend._


	2. Chapter 2

Tyrion scratched his nose absently with his free hand as he walked down the hall to the Council chambers, his other hand occupied with holding a thick sheaf of papers. The papers contained notes from his conversation with King Bran last night, after the Iron Bank's representatives had been fed and sent to their beds, and he hoped he would not need to use them. It had been a late night, trying to think of all the right questions to ask his Grace to prepare for this morning's meeting, a process to which he was becoming more accustomed but at which he was not sure he was getting better. Nonetheless, he now had a wealth of information. He smiled to himself. Yes, this meeting was going to be all about _wealth_.

Bronn and the bankers, already seated at the council table, nodded to Tyrion as he entered, but Bronn didn't pause his story, a recounting of how he'd reached a compromise with the Master of Ships over funding. For every ship the Crown funded, the Crown also funded the building of a new brothel, the profits of which then went to paying for the next ship's construction. "As I told 'im, ships won't come to your port if you don't have whores waitin' for 'em, and if you 'ave sailors spending their money on whores, some of the money might as well go back into shipping," Bronn finished, sitting back with a self-satisfied smile. Tyrion had to admit, the plan had worked better than he'd expected, and even Maester Samwell and Ser Brienne now had to bite their tongues at Small Council meetings when the subject arose. Money was money, and trade was trade, and right now they had precious little of either.

"We are glad to hear that his Grace has someone with such business acumen as his Master of Coin," the banker called Tycho Nestoris smoothly replied. Bronn grinned broadly and looked at Tyrion to make sure the dwarf had heard the comment. Tyrion pointedly ignored him as he shuffled his papers and surreptitiously examined the two Iron Bank representatives across the table. Tycho Nestoris had a bland expression that matched his plain clothes and face. The other banker, Noho Dimittis, had similar expression and clothes, but he allowed himself the extravagance of a beard, which he seemed to be fond of stroking. Tyrion had noticed last night that the duller the conversation topic, the more Dimittis stroked his beard. Dimittis had kept his hands clasped on the table during the whores and ships story but now his hand was creeping toward his chin.

"Well, banking is an interest of mine," Bronn started. If Tyrion had longer legs, he would have kicked the Lord Paramount of the Reach under the table. "So what is it you gentlemen are here to discuss?"

_Good, put the burden on them_, Tyrion thought. Dimittis's hand moved back to the table. Had Bran not mentioned Nestoris's and Dimittis's imminent four days ago arrival, the Small Council would have been completely surprised by the Iron Bank's visit. Even as it was, Tyrion had spent much of the last few days and nights trying to figure out why the Iron Bank had chosen to visit and whether the visit was to collect old debts, create new ones, or just confirm the dragon parts for which various Essosi had taken out loans actually were from a dragon. Bronn, being Bronn, had told Tyrion he might as well stop worrying because they'd find out soon enough. _Bronn does not play the game like his predecessors would have_, Tyrion thought. Perhaps that was why Bran had insisted Bronn be Master of Coin over Tyrion's objections that the former sellsword was more suited for Master of War.

If Nestoris and Dimittis were surprised at Bronn's direct question, they did not betray it. _Well, Davos says they dealt with Stannis, and a more blunt man than that is hard to find_, Tyrion reflected. Nestoris, as usual, replied first.

"The Iron Throne has some outstanding debts to the Iron Bank," he started, holding up a hand as both Tyrion and Bronn opened their mouths to argue, "but we recognize that there has been a change in leadership. So, we may be willing to forbear collecting on those loans, understanding Westeros's current dire financial situation, and we are here to offer financial assistance for you to feed your populace during this long and hard winter. I believe you currently are relying on sales of dragon carcass parts to buy food, but dragon carcasses are finite resources."

Bronn spoke first. "I'm a simple man, so I prefer simple terms. Does forbear mean forgive, or just delay while more interest piles up?"

Dimittis found his tongue. "Forbear means that we will not press to collect the debt now."

Bronn exchanged an amused look with Tyrion. "Seems to me that debt was incurred by a queen who's not only dead but defeated. There's no relationship between her and his Grace, King Bran. Do you usually take your bad loans and wander around telling other people to pay them, hoping you'll eventually find a sucker?"

Tyrion struggled to hide a smile as Nestoris's mouth tightened. "If the Targaryen girl were sitting on the throne, no, we would not be asking. But seeing as your regime killed her after she defeated Queen Cersei, it would seem that you were aligned with Queen Cersei or at least, with her interests. After all, I do believe the King's Hand is Queen Cersei's brother?" He turned and faced Tyrion with a raised eyebrow.

"Considering my sister had a bounty on my head, and that I was Hand to that same Targaryen girl who defeated her, I don't think the happenstance of my birth can be held as proof that King Bran was in any way aligned with Cersei. Moreover, the Iron Bank funded neither Daenerys Targaryen nor the Starks and other Westerosi who have taken power, so the normal arrangements you have do not apply."

"Multiple bounties," Bronn interjected lazily. "In fact, she offered me a cartful of gold to stick a crossbow bolt in his guts."

Nestoris made a small but irritated gesture. "This is all semantics. We made a loan to the Iron Throne and we will collect it eventually. Robert's debt became Cersei's debt which is Westeros's debt. And while she paid off most of it, there still is an outstanding balance."

Bronn raised his eyebrows at Tyrion, who shrugged. Bronn stood. "Since you gentlemen are so concerned with the Iron Throne's debts, how about we pay a visit to that Throne to see what it thinks about it?" he smiled jovially at the bankers. "C'mon, a walk will do all of us some good."

Bronn whistled while leading them through the short passage to the throne room, Tyrion trailing behind the other three. The Master of Coin gave the bankers a cheeky grin as he pushed open the door to the throne room and gestured for them to enter.

Tyrion wished he was in a position to see their faces as they took in the ruined space. Bran had told the Council not to bother repairing the space, so the throne room still was the same as when Daenerys had rained fire on the Red Keep: open to the sky, ringed with rubble heaps and ruined pillars. The two Braavosi slowly walked to the dais, silently looking around at the destruction as they went. When they stopped and stared at the space the throne formerly had occupied, Bronn strode up next to them. "And that slag heap, gentlemen, is all that's left of the Iron Throne. You still want to try to collect debts from it? Be my guest." He knelt down and picked up a bit of metal that had splattered. "Here, you even can have a piece of it."

The bankers just looked at him. Bronn slapped Nestoris on the back. "So now that that nonsense has been taken care of, let's sit back down and talk business. Care for some wine? It's not Dornish red or Arbor gold, but it's better than water. But then again, all wine is better than water."

Tyrion allowed himself a lingering look at the Iron Throne's remains before he left the room. _Such destruction_, he thought, _so much destruction for so little gain._

They returned to the Small Council chamber, the bankers looking thoughtful. After they were seated and Bronn poured a round of wine, which Nestoris and Dimittis fastidiously refused, the negotiations resumed. "I suppose that the Iron Bank can come to an agreement about that debt. But you have other, more pressing, matters at the moment," Nestoris advanced.

Tyrion sighed. It was his turn.

"Yes, we were planning to ask for a modest loan eventually," he started.

Nestoris and Dimittis both leaned forward slightly.

"But we're not confident right now that the Iron Bank is the place from which we would like to borrow."

"I'm sorry, my lord, but what bank were you considering using? I don't believe Westeros has a bank capable of the loans you need." Nestoris's words carried a slight edge of skepticism.

"We were thinking Volantis. It does have a bank," Tyrion kept his voice matter of fact.

Nestoris's reply dripped with sarcasm. "Volantis's bank is a tenth the size of the Iron Bank's. And we are here now, while it would take you months to travel to Volantis or to request the Volantene bankers to travel here. And there is no guarantee they even would deal with you."

"That is where you are wrong," Tyrion replied. "We have information they want."

Dimittis guffawed. "What information do you have that would loosen their purse strings to loan such a sum of money to a penniless, starving nation on another continent?"

"We can tell them which Triarch you replaced with a Faceless Man," Tyrion stated simply.

There was a clatter as the front legs of Bronn's chair, which he'd tilted back while lazily cleaning his fingernails with his dagger, hit the floor. Both Nestoris and Dimittis stared at Tyrion with slightly gaping mouths. Nestoris recovered more quickly, so Tyrion suspected he knew already about the deception. Dimittis took another moment to recover and then started protesting. Nestoris silenced him with a gesture.

"My lord, that is an extraordinary claim," Nestoris said smoothly. "I take it you have proof?"

Tyrion gave him a small smile. "Enough. And we know of some other Iron Bank activities that might be of great interest to its borrowers or those who are considering borrowing from it."

"So what exactly are you proposing, my lord?" Nestoris asked, leaning forward.

It took the rest of the day, as well as part the night, for the deal to finish. In the end, Tyrion only needed to identify one other piece of Iron Bank chicanery – funding both sides of a Myr-Tyrosh dispute, then paying the sellswords working for the Tyroshi to switch sides, so that Tyrosh lost and could not repay the Iron Bank and had to cede control over a strategic trading port to the Iron Bank as payment. Tyrion barely needed to start that story before Nestoris cut him off and agreed to the terms on the table.

Which was good, because those were the only two schemes Bran had been able to discern over the past few days. Tyrion did not doubt there were more plots Bran eventually could discover and Tyrion could leverage, but the longer the bankers stayed in King's Landing, the more likely they were to discover the source of Tyrion's knowledge and make arrangements to get rid of it. As it were, Tyrion suspected that some Iron Bank heads were going to roll when Nestoris returned to Braavos, but that was none of his concern. King Bran now had enough funds to cover another ten years' worth of food shipments, should they need them.


	3. Chapter 3

This journey north was far different from his previous one, Pod reflected as he crested a rolling hill and took in the sweep of land and sky in front of him. During that first trip he'd had little chance to appreciate the sheer scale of the North and its wild beauty. Then, it just had been a matter of covering as many miles as possible in as little time as possible, with Ser Brienne preoccupied with worry and him trying to figure out how to light a fire and find food. Now, there were others to take care of those worries and he just needed to scout around a bit to make sure there were no threats lurking over the next hill. Not that anyone would threaten King Bran in his homeland, or that King Bran's ravens wouldn't already know if there were a crazed robber lurking in the next tree ready to attack.

No, this trip was about enjoying the journey and the company, with the added anticipation of seeing a rebuilt Winterfell and old comrades at the end. And, unlike his last trip, winter was retreating and there was as much green as white on the ground – at least until the horses and wagons passed, replacing the green and white with a wide swath of grey and brown.

A rider came up behind him. "You don't appreciate the North's size until you have to ride through it," noted Bertrayne Quellyne, mirroring Pod's thoughts. The Dornishman wrapped his gold cloak a little tighter around his tall frame. "And it's still damn cold. I can't imagine what winter was like up here. How'd you manage it?"

Pod shrugged. "You forget how it feels to be warm and get used to it, mostly." He thought back to the night before the battle with the dead, when all those who could had sought the biggest fireplace in Winterfell for what they thought would be their last chance for warmth. He hummed a few bars of a song, his thoughts far away.

Ser Bertrayne's voice intruded. "Not me. I'll be glad when we return to King's Landing." He shook his head. "I'm going to ride ahead a bit."

Pod watched him take off at a canter down the hill, cutting a graceful figure on his sand steed. Although Ser Bertrayne was a fine fighter, he did complain a lot. Pod sometimes wondered if that was because the man only had been recently knighted and had not suffered the privations Pod and almost everyone else north of the Marches had suffered. One of King Bran's many changes had been to expand geographic representation on the Kingsguard, as well as to allow the knights to leave his service if they wished. "Duty is the death of love," the King had explained, Lord Tyrion starting at the words, "but sometimes love is the death of duty. I would rather someone be able to leave freely to follow their dreams than stay and spend their days resenting what they could not have." Ser Brienne had protested, but his Grace had held firm, as he always did. There was something comforting about having a king who was so confident in his choices, Pod thought.

That same king was approaching in his carriage, so Pod rode back to check to see if he needed anything. Sometimes his Grace needed to be reminded that he had physical needs, as he was so occupied with other considerations. As he drew up to the carriage, Pod noted that the king's eyes were white, so he knew not to disturb him. Instead, he fell back a few more carriages to the one carrying the Hand.

"Ah, the wondrous North. I wonder if they've rebuilt the brothels in Winterfell Town yet?" Lord Tyrion inquired idly as Pod rode up.

"I wouldn't know, my lord," Pod answered solemnly.

"Well, I'm tasking you with finding out," the smaller man replied with a grandiose gesture. "Of course, you may also need to take stock of their whores while you're there." He gave Podrick a sideways glance. "For research purposes, of course. We can't allow the North to have better whorehouses than King's Landing, after all."

Podrick felt himself flush. "I'm sure I will be too busy this trip, but I can find someone who would be happy to help my lord." Bran had never insisted that his Kingsguard be celibate, but Podrick knew Ser Brienne disapproved strongly of dalliances.

Lord Tyrion sighed. "Ser Brienne has turned you into one of the most boring people possible: a virtuous one. And I won't even have Bronn or Tormund around for entertainment."

"Are you sure, my lord?" Podrick replied. "If Tormund hears Ser Brienne is visiting…."

"Bite your tongue, lad!" the Hand replied in a dramatic whisper. "If she hears us, you'll be put on guard duty at some remote privy every night for the duration of our stay!"

XXX

By the time Ser Bertrayne wheeled King Bran out of the welcome feast, Pod's stomach was rumbling and his feet sore. _I should be accustomed to this by now, but I'm not_, he scolded himself. He was sure Ser Brienne never thought about her stomach and feet when she was on duty. He forced himself to stand straighter and scanned the crowd again for threats but saw nothing more dangerous than a boy tugging on a girl's braid, then hiding under a table as she chased him with a wooden spoon. At some tables men and women leaned towards each other, formalities dropping to the wayside as the alcohol took hold. He watched one couple in particular, a young woman with black hair giggling as an equally young soldier tried to convince her to try a bit of dessert, and thought back to the last time he'd attended a feast in this hall.

"Ser Podrick," came a voice by his elbow, and he jumped.

"Sorry m'lord," he mumbled to Lord Tyrion, who was watching him with an expression that mixed fondness with a bit of exasperation. "What can I do for you?"

"You can escort her Grace to her chambers. I believe entertaining the likes of us has exhausted her," the Hand answered.

Pod started to sputter that Queen Sansa had quite a few Northmen far more suitable than he to escort their queen, but the lady in question turned, caught his eye, and pushed back her chair. She bade her farewells to those remaining at the head table and made her way over to Podrick. As usual, he marveled over her poise and beauty.

"Ser Podrick," she addressed him politely.

"Your Grace," he responded. "Lord Tyrion says you are in need of an escort."

She smiled – a gracious smile, although not necessarily a warm one. "You do still remember your way around Winterfell?" Without waiting for an answer, she turned to Lord Tyrion and bade him good night, then turned and left the hall, Pod trailing after her.

Once in the hall, she waited for him to catch up and motioned for him to walk next to her. Her grey dress blended into the stone walls, but her red hair and white skin shone in the light of the torches.

He waited for her to speak first, and eventually she did. "Is it different, being here now?" she asked.

"Yes, your Grace. It's much less…" he spent an eternity searching for the right words "…much more welcoming now. There's no threats from ice kings or mad queens or dragons, and spring is here."

"Yes, spring is here," she echoed. They lapsed back into silence for a few moments. "Do you like being in the Kingsguard?" she finally asked as they turned onto the wing that contained her rooms.

"Yes, of course. It's a great honor, and I get to help Lord Tyrion and Ser Brienne…and his Grace…and Bronn is there, so it's a bit like old times."

The Queen's mouth quirked. "Old times when Joffrey and Cersei controlled the throne and Stannis threatened the city? I'm glad someone has fond memories of those days."

"No, that's not what I meant," Pod protested. It was hard to explain, but despite all the difficulties and danger that period in King's Landing was the first time anyone had paid him any attention and bothered addressing him as anything other than "you boy."

"Do you think you would ever want to leave the Kingsguard and have a family of your own?" Queen Sansa asked as they reached the corridor containing her chambers.

Pod started. He didn't want to admit it, but he had thought about it. "I'll serve as long as King Bran needs me," he answered truthfully. "And I don't know that any lady would want me, landless and titleless, with my only skills being recognizing house sigils and passably waving a sword."

Pod peeked at her out of the corner of his eye. The Queen had a knowing smile on her lips. "From what I have heard, you have some other skills as well." She paused. "The female population of the castle staff have talked of little else since you rode through the castle gates."

Pod looked down at his boots. It had been seven years since he'd last been to Winterfell, he thought. They still remembered him? He supposed there was little else to do on winter nights in the North other than tell tales. "I've been told I have some other skills, but they're not ones I'll be able to make coin from once I'm married."

Just then they reached the Queen's chambers. She gave two raps as she studied Pod's face, and a sleepy maid opened the door. "Don't discount yourself so much, Ser Podrick," Sansa said as she turned to enter. "Although modesty is a charm too few possess." As she stepped through the doorway, she swiftly turned back to him. "And thank you for escorting me tonight."

"It was my pleasure, your Grace," Pod answered with a bow. The door shut and he was left in the hallway feeling confused. He hadn't expected Queen Sansa to be interested in him – they hadn't had such a long conversation since their ride to Castle Black years ago, when she was a bedraggled runaway and he an incompetent squire. He strode back down the hallway, whistling quietly. She certainly was beautiful, and he always liked spending time with a beautiful woman. Perhaps she'd asked for him to escort her to give her own guards a bit of a break to enjoy the feast – the King had brought copious food supplies with him, including wine and preserved lemons, and Pod understood the meal tonight far surpassed in quality the jerky, turnips, porridge, and hardtack on which the Northerners largely had been subsisting for the past few years (and even that only was because Sansa had, like Tyrion, figured out dead dragons' value to the Essosi).

Winterfell did feel a bit like home, he thought as he walked through the familiar corridors. He'd spent the better part of two years here, moving his sleeping quarters around as the castle's population had fluctuated, so he'd gotten to know the castle and its inhabitants quite well. At one point he'd shared a room with three squires from the Vale, two of whom snored and the third of whom snuck in a washerwoman every night who expressed her happiness during the visit quite loudly.

As he turned into the corridor where the King, Lord Tyrion, and the Kingsguard had been housed, he was surprised to see Ser Brienne standing outside his door. He stopped whistling immediately. She should be in bed by now. Had something happened to his Grace?

"Ser Podrick, there has been a change in plans." Ser Brienne was nothing if not proper. "You will have the night shift tonight and tomorrow night with Ser Rollan, and Ser Bertrayne and I will take the daytime shifts. But be prepared for sparring practice in the yard with me in the mornings after Ser Bertrayne relieves you."

Pod wanted to roll his eyes. Even after all these years, Ser Brienne still seemed to think that he would lose his swordsmanship skills if she didn't schedule practice with him every few days. "Yes, Lord Commander," he said. He trudged down the hall to stand outside his Grace's door. Ser Rollan would be inside already. Pod had been looking forward to using that featherbed since their arrival that afternoon. Perhaps anticipation would make his sleep in the morning that much sweeter.

XXX

"So how are you enjoying your stay in the North?" Lord Tyrion asked nonchalantly as he and Pod watched Ser Brienne spar in the yard with Willem Trey, Winterfell's Master at Arms, after she handily beat Pod three times and declared herself in need of a challenge.

Podrick had been in such a state of exhaustion since his arrival he hadn't really thought about it. The night watches were followed by hour-long sparring sessions with Brienne, and when he finally was able to retire to his room, there were constant interruptions from visitors. He had made the mistake of taking the first one up on her offer to provide a bath and a backrub, which had led to an enjoyable romp, but she must have run directly from his chambers to some room where all the rest of the female staff sat together waiting for gossip, because he'd gotten no more than an hour of sleep before the taps on his door started. Did he desire some food? Did his clothes need laundering? Did the fire need kindling? The female servants were quite solicitous, checking in on him every few hours and leaving him almost no time to sleep. But a word of that to Lord Tyrion would lead to nonstop japes. "Well enough, my lord. It's nice to see old friends, but I've been on night duty so much I haven't had much opportunity to visit, and I haven't had as much sleep as I'd like."

The Hand gave him a glance that indicated he was aware of the true reason for Podrick's lack of sleep. "Your reputation follows you everywhere. Should I put a guard on _your_ door?"

Pod gave him a weak smile in return. Lord Tyrion shook his head and chuckled. "How about you sleep in my room today? Trust me, none of the women here are knocking on my door."

"Thank you, my lord." Podrick's answer was heartfelt. "You always were too kind." At that moment Ser Brienne knocked the sword out of Trey's hand, the watchers applauded, and the group started to break up. Podrick nodded to Ron Blouet, his squire, who followed him as he stumbled back into his room. While he shed his armor Podrick quickly told the lad where he was going, and to disclose the information to no one but Ser Brienne, grabbed a bedsheet and clothing, and went back into the hallway. Double-checking no one was watching, he slipped into Tyrion's room and quickly closed the shutters against the morning light, donned clean small clothes, spread the sheet over the bed, and collapsed.

XXX

The knocking was just as persistent as but immeasurably louder than that which had been interrupting his sleep for the past three days. Podrick, his eyes still closed, rolled out of bed and stumbled to what he thought was the door, only to run into a wardrobe. That woke him up a bit, and he opened his eyes and realized he was in Lord Tyrion's room, which had the furnishings placed opposite to those in his room. He walked back to the other side of the bed, grabbing a tunic and breeches and pulling then on while calling that he was coming. He opened the door as he laced the tunic and, to his consternation, found Ser Brienne standing outside.

"My Lady…Ser…Lord Commander," Pod stumbled through all the titles he'd called her over the years before coming to the proper one.

"Ser Podrick, Lord Tyrion informed me I would find you here," Ser Brienne answered with a raised eyebrow. "I take it you are alone?"

"Yes," Pod muttered, stepping back so she had a full view of the room. He noticed a bit of light filtering through the shutters, far less bright than when he'd closed them, and wondered how late it was.

"Your presence is requested in Queen Sansa's solar in an hour," the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard told him stiffly. "Your squire already has a bath ready to help you make yourself presentable." Her scathing glance at him told him all he needed to know about his appearance.

A little less than an hour later Podrick presented himself at the door to Queen Sansa's solar, his hair slightly damp but his armor gleaming. The two northern guards at the door exchanged glances but let him in without question. Sansa was seated at a large table in the middle of the room reading letters and making notes. She set down the paper she was holding as Pod entered and stood.

Pod nervously looked around the room – twice – because, to his disconcertment, there appeared to me no one else present. "Your Grace, did you call for me?" he asked, wondering if Ser Brienne's appearance at his door had been a dream and he had not, in fact, been summoned.

"I did, Ser Podrick," Sansa answered.

"But is meeting without anyone else present," his voice dropped to a whisper, "proper?"

She smiled. "Much of what I have been doing the past several years is not proper. Declaring the North independent. Ruling without a king." There was steel in her voice. "I have met alone with men far less honorable than you."

"Of course, your Grace, I did not mean to question your judgment," Pod responded, his eyes downcast.

"Please sit," the Queen said in a tone that was poised between courtesy and command. Pod sat.

His eyes remained down as he heard he chair move as she reseated herself. His discomfort was growing by the minute. Was she going to berate him for distracting the castle women? For some other infraction?

She surprised him. "Pod," she said in a gentle voice, "look at me."

He did and found himself caught in her cool blue gaze. "None of us knew how to approach this and I thought meeting alone with you would help," she started. "So I will be direct. Do you know why Bran and Tyrion decided to travel here?"

"No, your Grace," Pod responded. "It was not my place to ask."

"I have spent the past nine years fighting and feeding and building and caring for my people," the Queen sat back but kept hold of Pod's gaze. "It was an incredibly difficult winter even after Daenerys was killed and her troops left. My people now trust me to make good decisions and usher them into a summer that, I hope, will bring peace and bounty. But there must always be a Stark in Winterfell." She stopped for a moment and Pod nodded, although he did not know why she was telling him this. "And so I have my councilors telling me I must marry and bear children. I have a steady stream of suitors. And I have the memories of my family, especially my father, reminding me how important family is."

Pod relaxed. She was going to ask him about the families of Westeros and whom he would recommend she marry. He knew the houses better than anyone, as he had found digging through family histories, feuds, and alliances one way to distract himself on lonely winter evenings, as well as useful when all the lords of the land came to the King begging for aid or offering favors.

"I have decided I cannot marry a northern lord," Sansa continued. "It would cause too much jealousy and bitterness. I cannot marry a member of one of the great houses of Westeros because that would cause divided loyalties and eventually might create some leverage to force the North to bend the knee to someone in King's Landing. I will not marry someone from beyond the Narrow Sea, given our experiences with Daenerys's armies from there. So whom should I marry, Ser Podrick?"

Podrick felt his heart beat faster. No one ever had asked him for such important advice before. He took his time before answering. "Well, your Grace, even if you feel you cannot marry a northern lord, whomever you marry should be someone northerners will respect. Someone perhaps known to them; I know they are suspicious of outsiders." He paused. "Perhaps someone who would worship the old gods or at least not insist on bringing the Seven here." After his time at Winterfell and with Bran, Podrick knew the power of the old gods and their importance to the North. "Someone who can fight - I doubt the Northerners would respect someone who cannot fight - but who understands politics and has some knowledge of how to behave at court."

Sansa was watching him closely and he pushed on. "And someone who understands that he is king only by your grace and will not try to usurp you or undermine you in any way." He thought back to the broken girl they'd found in the woods all those years ago. "And someone who will treat you as the queen you are, even in the privacy of your own chambers." He felt himself blushing and looked down again. "Someone you can trust absolutely."

"Is there anyone who can satisfy all of those conditions?" Sansa prodded gently.

Podrick frowned. "Lord Tyrion, if he steps down as the King's Hand?"

Sansa shook her head. "No. Tyrion has many admirable qualities, but the North remembers … that he was Queen Daenerys's Hand."

"A Wildling?" he asked, smiling to himself at the thought of Tormund dressed in fine wool and eating with a knife and fork, but the Queen shook her head.

"While we trust them with a military alliance, I don't think the North yet trusts them enough to have one as a ruler," she answered. "And I don't think a Wildling would be happy here, anyway."

Podrick cast about desperately for another name. Everyone he could think of was landed gentry or the wrong personality. He was about to despair when Sansa leaned forward and took one of his hands.

"What about you, Ser Podrick?" She spoke so quietly he wasn't sure he heard her correctly and stared at her dumbly.

"You have all those admirable qualities. Trusted by the North though not of it, landless but still noble, a fighter but still kind." He started to protest when he realized that he'd taken her hand in both of his without knowing it.

"You do not have to answer now," she said. "Bran wants to travel to the Wall soon and will leave in two days. When you return with him, let me know your decision. I hope the month that travel entails is sufficient time to mull this – and give you a chance to see more of the North."

"Who else knows?" he managed to gasp.

"King Bran, Ser Brienne, and Lord Tyrion. That is all." _That is all, _Podrick thought ruefully. _For the next month one will be looking into my soul, one will be examining me for flaws to beat out of me, and one will not stop mocking me. If all of them think this is the best choice for Queen Sansa, what is there to gain by having a month of pondering and doubting, knowing I'll bow to their pressure in the end anyway? _

"I accept," he blurted.

Sansa froze for a moment, then frowned slightly. "Are you certain?"

Ser Podrick Payne rose from his chair, circled around the table, and knelt before his new Queen. "I, Ser Podrick Payne, do accept your Grace's offer of marriage. I will shield your back and keep your counsel…."


	4. Chapter 4

The young woman walked along the waterfront in the gathering dusk, nodding or waving to traders and sailors she knew and ignoring catcalls from those she did not. Her walk was carefree but not provocative, and she was dressed modestly, so only the stupid tried to proposition her. And they were met with the sharp end of a dagger if they got too close.

Her destination was the Yin harbormaster's offices. A quick peek in the side window showed that Taro Binni, the harbormaster's assistant, sat alone at the front desk, so she was free to enter. Binni oversaw the offices whenever Tavo Gevi sat in a tavern on the next street being entertained by new arrivals who wanted to hear Gevi's trading advice and to use his connections for favorable deals. Gevi did not have a large house in a respectable suburb because of his harbormaster's salary.

Binni was left in the office looking to supplement his meager assistant's income with other jobs. And so his face lit up as the woman entered and took the chair opposite him.

"Ah, Carra! Would you like a glass of kasai?" he asked, grabbing the jar from the cabinet behind him and pouring it as he asked. He never took no for an answer, and Carra's manners were too good to refuse the first cup if it already was poured.

When he finished filling her glass, Carra reached over and poured for him. As etiquette required, she poured the same amount for him as he'd poured for her. As usual, he'd poured an immoderate amount. "To Taro Binni, a man of great discretion," Carra toasted.

"To Carra, whose visits are a brightness for my dark evenings," he replied, and they drank.

They sat in silence for a minute, ostensibly savoring the kasai. "A new blend?" Carra finally ventured.

Binni smiled. "Yes, a trader brought it earlier this evening. He said it's from far inland in Jinquin province. I'm not sure if I believe him. He was looking for Gevi but was persuaded to leave it as a reminder for me to tell Gevi of the visit. See – he wrote his ship's name and dock number on the jar in chalk?"

Carra nodded and examined the ship's name. "Snake's Tail?" she asked hesitantly. Although she spoke YiTish well, her knowledge of written YiTish was poor.

Binni shook his head. "No, see the first two characters have a line over them, although it's a little smudged. It's Dragon's Tail."

"A lot of ships named after dragons nowadays," Carra murmured, leaning back.

"Well, thanks to the Dragon Queen, we have been reminded again of these beasts and their might – and their ability to cross seas," Binni answered.

"I heard she was dead," Carra replied. "The Dragon Queen."

Binni sipped more kasai. "I have as well, but the stories vary. That she coupled with one of the dragons and died birthing the spawn. Or that she immolated herself to kill a northern king made of ice, burning the Westeros capital to ashes in the process." The man shrugged his large, sloped shoulders. "Either way, I have no hopes of getting a dragon of my own…except perhaps a gold one."

Carra smiled at Binni. "Any chance of earning that gold dragon soon?" she asked casually.

Binni nodded, his face sliding into the sly expression he always wore when discussing a deal. "Perhaps. Shall we try a game of taison to pass the time?" Before she had time to answer, he'd unrolled the mat at the desk's side with a flick of the wrist.

Binni shuffled the tiles facedown, then flipped them over as he filled the board with them. Carra carefully watched the paths as they revealed themselves, wondering if this could be the first time she won again Binni. Taison's rules were much simpler than those of cyvasse, but the board changed every game and good play involved mentally mapping out all possible moves before touching her playing piece to the first tile.

Binni graciously allowed her the first move and started talking while he contemplated his own strategy. "Many interesting visitors today. One was a Volantene captain – your countryman! - looking for some assistance finding a sailor who absconded with all the binders as soon as they set anchor. Difficult to sail home without binders, with the slavers getting bolder now."

Carra nodded absentmindedly. Slaver's Bay was in a constant state of flux and she'd decided not to spend too much effort following its happenings until she was ready to sail west – if she ever did.

Binni continued. "Then a priest – one who follows R'hllor. Lots of tattoos on that one. Said he was looking for a she-wolf. I told him he was on the wrong continent." Binni didn't laugh at his own joke as he usually would, and his face sobered and he finally moved his piece. "But then he told me he'd settle for a creature with no face. I asked him why and he said he had a delivery that needed to be made west of here."

Carra pretended to be studying the board, but her heart was pounding. "And what does he need delivered, and where exactly?"

"He gave no other details, said only that he might return – or he might not."

Carra made a stupid move with her game piece but then again, she was a stupid girl who had believed a ship's captain who had promised to marry her when he made his fortune in Yi Ti. "What about the Volantene captain?"

"I told him to return in two days and I'd give him a price."

It took only seven more moves for Binni to win and for Carra and Binni to determine a preliminary price to find a missing sailor with binders. Carra promised she'd consult with her employer and return the next night with a final price for the Volantene – and for the priest, should he return.

They parted amicably, and Carra made her way back to her inn, all her senses on alert. The news about the red priest had rattled her, much more than she'd let on to Binni. She considered doubling back a few times, or taking to the rooftops, but decided that if a red priest knew where to find the contact for a Faceless Man who also was a she-wolf, then the priest likely already knew where the Faceless Man's contact slept. She forced herself to walk at a steady pace and finally arrived back at the Third Tiger, taking care to examine her room's window. Was it open wider than when she'd left? She didn't think so.

Gani, the desk clerk, nodded at her as she entered, then turned back to his work. He would have told her if anything unusual had occurred, she reasoned. He even knew to alert her if any interesting travelers had checked in while she was out. Nonetheless, she drew her dagger as she silently approached her door. She listened for several minutes and, hearing nothing, unlocked the door and threw it open in one move while ducking to the side in the hallway. Hearing nothing further, she peeked through the crack on the door's hinge side and saw nothing untoward. She quickly entered the room, leaving the door open, and conducted a quick reconnaissance. The room was too small for anyone to hide, so she let out her breath and closed the door behind her.

It was time for a change. Carra was becoming too well-known. What would some priest need her to deliver anyway? she thought angrily as she opened her trunk. Perhaps it was time to return home. She tossed the clothes from the trunk onto the bed. The priests had the resources to send one of their own anywhere, at any time. They didn't need her. She carefully moved Needle onto the bed on top of the clothes and pushed a knob to release the trunk's false bottom. She froze as it swung open. Nestled among the faces was a dragon's egg.


End file.
